


A favour for Stanley

by dark_sequoia



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, John has a prosthetic arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_sequoia/pseuds/dark_sequoia
Summary: John and Stanford used to work together investigating the strange anomalies of Gravity Falls. An argument and thirty years later they can barely tolerate each other.It's the next few days after Stanford's return and Stanley calls in a favour from John.
Kudos: 3





	A favour for Stanley

Stan had called John at eight in the morning, asking for a favour. It was a couple of days after he'd reopened the portal and his brother had returned to sock him in the jaw.  
Shortly after his reunion and dealing with the FBI, he made it clear that he didn't want John around. Stanley had offered to drive him home which he'd eagerly accepted. Emotions bottled up for too long were released on the half hour trip to John's home. They parted with a hug that lasted longer than usual but neither said anything about discomfort.

John hummed to himself as he carried his toolbox down the road to the Mystery Shack. His watch, if he'd looked at it, would've read half past nine. He hoped both Mabel and Dipper were up, he'd hate to rudely wake them. It was a warm summer's day, the kitchen radio promised rising temperatures in the afternoon.

He could see Stan leaning against the exterior wall, sipping on a can of Pitt soda.  
"You're early."  
"Morning to you too, Stan."  
John grinned as he tilted his head. The con man chucked a can at him.  
"Catch."  
"Oof! Thanks. Are the twins up?"  
"Yup, Dipper's geeking out while Mabel's knitting with Waddles."  
"Good."  
"The shingles are up in the attic, help yourself to them."  
"All right."  
Both men drank in silence, the occasional birdsong from the trees and burp from Stan.  
"It's been a weird week."  
"You said it. How are you feeling?"  
"I'm fine, Stan. He's not my brother."  
"You're a terrible liar, John."  
"I learned from the best."  
"Hmph."  
"Waddles!"  
Mabel called from inside and a pink pig burst through the open doorway with something in his mouth. His owner soon followed, almost knocking into her great uncle had he not twisted out the way.  
# It mine!  
Waddles oinked, running around the Mystery Shack and out of sight. John laughed as Mabel chased after him.  
"Damn naked weirdo!"  
Stan yelled, shaking his fist. He turned to John, eyeing his left arm.  
"You sure that thing will survive the heat?"  
"I've worked in a heatwave before, Stan. Worst outcome is that I get sunburnt."

His jumper was thrown off in the first three hours of his task, replacing missing shingles in the roof of the Mystery Shack. Waddles had evaded Mabel's grasp, instead opting to hide in the space beneath the porch.  
"Come out, Waddles!"  
John shook his head with a smile as he positioned another nail into the corner of the tile.  
# It mine!!  
With a few firm taps, the nail was in and John shimmied down to grab the next shingle. He felt the warmth from the sun melt into his skin and wiped away the sweat gathering on his forehead. John sat back to admire the view, staring up at the huge towering californian redwoods. They were an impressive size when mature, able to withstand almost anything. He envied their resilience.  
"He's under the porch!"  
John called as Mabel looked around for the pink perpetrator.  
# Traitor!  
"There you are!"  
The chase began anew but the Pine twin had an advantage on her side, closing in from the right. He watched Dipper slowly creep up on the pig from behind, nodding to his sister. In unison they lunged for Waddles. John whooped as Dipper tied the pig up in an appropriate fashion while Mabel pulled at the thing still lodged in his mouth, a tug of war roughly ensuing.  
# It mine!!  
"Give it back, Waddles!"  
John considered at yet another victory for the Pines twins and went back to work.

"How's it looking?"  
Stan called from the ledge as John hammered away, wearing an old green cap, something from the Mystery Shack's older inventory.  
"It's getting there. At least twenty more then that'll be it."  
John answered and grabbed his water bottle, drinking from it greedily.  
"You got sun screen?"  
"I'll be fine, Stan."  
"If you say so. How's that arm?"  
He asked and John sat back as he returned the bottle to the toolbox. He regarded his arm, pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt and peered at the point connecting the prosthetic to the remainder of his arm. He rotated his shoulder and groaned at his joints popping in protest.  
"Could probably cook eggs on this thing."  
"Fried or scrambled?"  
"Har har, Stan."  
John rolled his eyes with a smile.  
"Lunch is in half an hour. Don't be late."  
"Yessir."

Needless to say, John was late. He lost track of time as he hammered nails into the shingles and glanced at his watch before doing a double take.  
"Damn it!"  
He cursed, tossing the hammer back into the box and scrambled down to the ledge to climb through the window. Stan was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs with his arms folded.  
"I lost track of time,"  
He tried sheepishly, the con man just glared at him.  
"You're almost as bad as Sixer, John."  
"Almost?"  
John ventured as he followed Stan into the kitchen and sat down. He was famished and the small tower of sandwiches set down before him looked mouthwatering. Wolfing them down with a glass of lukewarm orange juice, John leaned back in the chair and sighed contentedly. Stan at him from across the table with a stunned expression.  
"When was the last time you ate?"  
He asked and John opened his eyes to frown at the ceiling. He counted on his fingers, missing the perplexing look shot at him from the other side of the table.  
"Friday, wait, I tell a lie, Saturday if you count eight slices of toast."  
"I don't have to remind you what day it is, do I?"  
"Sunday?"  
"It's Monday. You're as bad as he is. It's official."  
"What's official?"  
Stanford asked as he walked into the kitchen, his nose buried in one of his journals only to look up and fix John with a glare. He opened his mouth to speak when he noticed his left arm.  
"He's here to fix the roof, that's all."  
"Speaking of which, I should be getting back to it. Thanks for lunch, Stan."  
It took all of his restraint to not run up the stairs and climb back out the window.

Stanford eventually sought John out just as he was on the last two shingles.  
"How long have you had the prosphetic?"  
John looked over his left shoulder to the author and shrugged.  
"Twenty years, give or take. Had to go salvage parts in the ship, took me a few tries to get it right. Not the most efficient but I get by."  
"May I?"  
Stanford asked and John tilted his head. Balancing the hammer on the ledge, he undid the clasps and handed over his prosphetic.  
"Careful. It's been overheating today."  
John wasn't entirely sure why he was giving his arm to someone who hated his guts just to examine and criticise his limb. He left the man to his muttering and nitpicking and continued to tap nails into the wood. In a few minutes the last shingle was done and he tucked the rest of the nails he hadn't needed away into the toolbox. John gathered his things and waited by the ledge as Stanford became absorbed in finding flaws in his arm. With an agitated sigh, he shook his head and climbed back through the window.

Stan met him by the old sofa outside the Mystery Shack with a frown.  
"Where's your arm?"  
John motioned towards the roof where Stanford had been sitting.  
"He's busy with it. It's not a big deal."  
The sun was starting to disappear behind the trees, the gentle pastel colours streaking across the sky and highlighting fluffy clouds a sign of its setting.  
"You walking home?"  
"There's still light in the sky, Stan. I'll get home before dark."  
"I'll make sure you get it back tomorrow. Thanks for your help today."  
Stan mumbled and John found himself grinning.  
"No problem. I'll see you later, yeah?"

John tried to ignore the feeling that he was being watched as he headed down the road. With his prosphetic, anomalies tended to avoid him like the plague for the most part.  
Beady little eyes stared unblinkingly from a clump of ferns growing on the side of the dirt track, scurrying back into the woods. He felt vulnerable without his arm and quickened his pace.  
"Benjamin."  
A familiar voice called from behind him and John halted in his tracks.  
"Without the weapon, I see?"  
He turned around to regard the illusion with a hard glare. It wore Derrick's face, twisted in the imitation of a smile. John felt a flicker of rage and ignored the urge to beat its goddamn face in. He spun on his heel and strode away, the image of his brother's contorted face burned into his memory.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my head for a good year or two. I just didn't have the guts to get it up on here sooner. I guess late is better than never.
> 
> As for John's left arm, it's not something he likes to talk about. And as for the mysterious illusion of his brother? Well, you'll just have to stick around to find out.


End file.
